Peter, By Gift Of Aslan
by The Vervain Faery
Summary: They’re all still trying to piece together who they used to be with who they had became with who they were now and Peter doesn’t understand how any of them can remember who they’re supposed to be these days.


A/N: written for the summerwriting challenge, but I missed the deadline (by over a month) and the length requirement (by 11,000 words) because I'm an incompetent fool. This is my first Narnia piece, so I'm a bit nervous.

Dedicated to: my WonWon (for being unable to talk me out of Peter kissing Edmund, looking up random things I needed to know, cheerleadering me on, and listening to me whine about this for weeks on end) and Knight Leena (for making all my decisions for me.)

o.o.o.

This is his moment of death and rebirth, he realises. A search for redemption and a chance to change what he once was and who he might become.

o.

At first, he doesn't know where he is, doesn't_ remember _the small room or the old walls. The air is murky but he breathes in the scent of_ SusanEdmundLucy_ and for a second everything is alright. They are there with him so he knows they're safe at least.

He feels Susan pressed up behind him while Edmund and Lucy are sprawled on either side. He can't look up through the tangle of their limbs but he can feel that something's different. He feels too long and gangly once again and doesn't know how to separate himself from this mess.

o.

He almost feels like a ghost, dead and wandering the paths he had in life. Only, at times, he can't remember this life. He doesn't know how to adjust.

He isn't sure he wants to adjust.

He can't wrap his mind around the fact that his crown had been ripped from his fingers so easily.

o.

He has trouble sleeping now.

He can't pinpoint exactly what it is, but something about the night air is different, causing him to stare listlessly out the windows. Sometimes he feels it pressing in, and he knows that it can't be what he's used to; the freedoms, the responsibilities, the loyalties: he's left all that behind and he doesn't need to worry about it. But he does. He's spent so much of his life worrying that he just can't help it.

There are rings around his eyes, bruising-shadows smudged into much-too pale skin, and his step is slower than it had been the last time he was fourteen.

He hopes the others don't notice, hopes they think he's still strong. He knows the others feel it, Narnia pulling at their seams, just as deeply as he, but he hopes they can't see it affecting him.

He sees Valiant Lucy shut herself in that wardrobe for hours, only to exit with smeared tear trails on her tired little face.

He sees Just Edmund playing swords against imaginary foe with sharpened sticks, only to throw himself to the ground in frustration with his forgotten technique.

He sees Gentle Susan's fingers drop and trail along where her horn should hang at her waist, only to shake her head and bury herself in whatever she's reading.

He knows they're all just doing the best that they can to be whole once more, but he isn't sure anything they do will ever be enough.

They all just want to go home.

o.

When he _does_ sleep and dream, at first it's of his Maenad, Melpomene. His heart beats fast, thumping tattoos against the cage of his ribs. He feels light-headed and flimsy, not corporal at all, like something saccharine and capricious, a brief illusion at best. He knows it's nothing more than a delusion but can't help the way his heart strains for her.

Everything is dream-pale, colours swirling, sounds melding into the next, the ocean and sky ending and becoming one; the world is a blur, and he can never concentrate on it as it as it melts around him.  
His hands, on the small of her back, in her brown, brown hair, touching her face and places no one else has, thrill him, sending tingles throughout his soul. Lips sweep across his own, tasting of cool Galma honey and cassia leaves, sugar and cinnamon dancing through his senses.

He wakes up confused and longing, his smile already fading from his lips when he opens his eyes to see the blank plaster ceiling above him and not scarves of silk.

He rolls over, sick and still tired, and doesn't know how to brace himself to face another day in England.

o.

"That was the dream, this is reality," Susan assures them, not knowing she is echoing Aslan's words of the future.

_ "That was the dream, this is reality."_ Indeed.

But he can't forget the dream. None of them can.

Not even Susan, who pretends better than anyone else.

o.

It's rainy, and they're stuck inside once more.

None of them have the heart to distract Susan from her word games and none can gather the strength to play hide-n-seek, not after last time. It's stuffy, but the fire is going, rolling heat along their bodies, intensifying the scent Peter knows as _home_ and _SusanEdmundLucy._

For a moment or two, he can fool himself. He can sit there and breathe as he pretends that they're all sitting around _their_ library in Cair Paravel, waiting for Oerius to gallop in with midday news and dinner announcements.

But instead of Oerius, it is Mrs Macready that bursts in, disapproval written on her face.

o.

He listens to Edmund's steady breath when he has trouble sleeping.

He's jealous of Edmund, of course. Edmund who can push it all out of mind long enough to fall into slumber for a few precious hours.

But Peter spends night after restless night remembering the weight of Rhindon and his shield. Remembering quick talks with mermaids and unicorns that lasted for hours. Remembering listening for Edmund's non-existent breath from across the room even when he knew that Edmund was across Cair Paravel in his own rooms instead of across their room in England.

Back then, he had missed England.

He had known he shouldn't, he had so much else to worry over and care for, but he hadn't been able to help it. He'd eventually forgotten all about it.

And now, he misses so much of Narnia.

o.

He misses the stars, the mythical dance upon the sky.

He misses Tarva, Lord of Victory, and Alambil, the Lady of Peace. Sometimes he searches for them in the English night sky, even though he knows they can't be there. Knows they shouldn't be when he thinks he catches sight of one or the other.

The sky just doesn't look real anymore. It seems blank and impersonal, tiny fairy lights strewn across it.

All of England doesn't seem real. It seems like a poor, second-hand version of life now. Colours are dull. Sounds are shrill. Even the air tastes weak.

It doesn't have the feel of such a rich Narnia.

o.

He had had trouble sleeping then too, but back then he had guessed his problems, admitted to them. Back then, he had been a King. He had been strong. And he could admit his flaws. Admit his worries.

But now? Now that's behind him. Now he's just a boy, fourteen years old again and lost.

The others _don't _notice that he's still bleary eyed, weeks later, but that's okay with him; he's still their High King, still who they look to for their strength. Oh, sure, Edmund still snarks about him thinking he's so mature and mighty, but now, he knows Edmund doesn't mean it. Now, he knows that's just how Edmund deals with himself.

He rubs the back of his hand across his face, skin scratching against his eyelashes, and puts on another smile for everyone.

o.

Most days, Peter feels like a kid. Oh, he knows he _is_ a kid, but he has memories of not being one. His mind and body remembers what it's like to grow older, to be something stronger and more powerful. He remembers being tall and broad with his golden hair longer than allowed in England for fourteen year old boys.

But more than anything else, he remembers what it's like to be King.

That's not something he can explain to anyone else, maybe not even to Susan or Lucy, or even Edmund.

They had been there too, of course, but things had been different for them. At face value, they had ruled by his side, but at the heart of the matter, it had been he up late into the evenings, worrying about the dwarfs. It had been he fretting over Tisroc and the Calormen army. It had been he making sure they were all still safe.

So, they could have been there and ruled in name, but they hadn't known what it was to be His Majesty, High King Peter the Magnificent, and they didn't know what it was to lose that.

o.

Peter knows and remembers things that he needn't ever know. He remembers how to pull Rhindon from its sheath in a blazing arc. He remembers how to bow before the mermaid Lord. He remembers how to sweep acknowledging kisses on his subjects' cheeks. He remembers all sorts of court manners.

These are all things he needs to forget. Things he doesn't need to do or know any longer.

So he freezes when he realises his lips are rough against Edmund's forehead.

He looks at Edmund, startled, and steps away. He hadn't meant to slide back like that, back into the role of King. In this case, a pat on the back would have sufficed.

Edmund doesn't look upset or offended. Because, Peter realises, Edmund remembers too. Even if they all pretend they're over it and it was nothing but a game, they all remember and fall back so easily.

o.

Susan had seen him, bestowing kisses on their brother's cheek. Her eyes are cold but understanding.

"Peter…" her voice is cautious.

"I know, Su." "I don't think you do. It's just"

"I_ know, _Su"

"I thought you were done playing King"

He doesn't know how to tell her that one can't just get _over _being a High King. It's part of his very blood now. He imagines that it's different for her; she's ready to believe something else. He doubts she _feels_ what 'once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia' really means. Not like Edmund and Lucy do. He feels himself stepping away from her.

Susan doesn't know how to let it go. "Eventually we have to go back to London. No one will understand"

He doesn't say anything, just looks at her.

"Well, they _won't._ You can't just go around kissing your brother"

He sighs and hangs his head and doesn't want to admit she's right.

o.

The taste and smell of salt and sand and wind always startles him when suddenly fills his senses. He wakes up expecting to have the seashore beneath him, crusty sand stuck to his skin and the warm sun shining down on him.

Well, it is warm when he opens his eyes but because the curtains are open and the sun is streaming in. He climbs out of his bed and pats down his rumpled hair and ignores Edmund's pointed stares.

As he's making his bed, pulling the sheets taunt and tight, he feels something sharp prick at his fingers. He fumbles through his pillow cases until he pulls it loose, his hand opening up to reveal a pink shell in his hand.

He puts it on the window sill; he's never seen the English seaside. Maybe he can pretend it's the same as Narnia's.

o.

Sometimes, when he runs away from it all, to some far corner of Professor Kirke's estate, he almost allows himself to consciously remember. The rest of the time, he tries to push it away, tries to live with the _here and now_ in England. Tries to stop being Sir Peter Wolf's Bane. Somehow, he can't.

The grass is coarse under his hands and the sky is dull and lifeless and he tries to blank his mind, to know nothing at all. He wants to forget it all, to forget before Narnia: the air strikes, the fear, the boredom. He wants to forget Narnia itself and everything he learned there. He wants to forget everything about himself and rebuild his image from the scattered ashes of who he could be. Maybe that Peter could truly be strong.

But as it is, he is forced to keep his memories and be what everyone remembers him to be.

o.

Sometimes, when he plays cricket, or hide-n-seek, or any of a number of things they used to do as children, he thinks he can hear the mermaids singing nearby. Or maybe the tune of a theorbo on the wind. He always freezes, straining to hear more of that lovely melody. But he never does and his heart skips a beat with his straining.

o.

He tries to write letters to his mother.

_ Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, sends greetings to…_

That's where he always trails off. In England, things aren't written like that, even if they're true. Which they aren't anymore.

They hadn't ever been true here.

He crumples the paper and pulls another sheet towards him.

_ Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, sends greetings to…  
_  
He sighs and drops his pen, and that pulls Susan and Edmund's attention towards him. He gives them weak smiles, something to move their awareness away from him.

_ Peter, by the gift of Aslan…  
_  
o.  
The stars are spread above him, blinking and dancing brightly for him alone. He sees them whenever he closes his eyes. He opens his eyes to England, always disappointed when he does.

Even after all this time has passed he still sees Ramandu pointing long fingers up at the sky, tracing patterns and acknowledging places he had once lived.

He ignores the shapes in this sky, Orion and Sirius and Lepus, because they can never compare.

o.

He knows that the others still miss it. He can see it in the way they act, even if they all forget more and more each coming day.

They've all accepted it to some degree, because how do they rebuild what they've lost?

How do they become who they were once more?

It's impossible and this is just who they have to be.

So Susan opens her books and studies a little harder.

Edmund rolls his eyes a little more than necessary.

And Lucy plays out in the sunshine far more often than she used to.

Peter isn't sure how he's trying to compensate, but he's sure he's doing something.

Because they're all still trying to piece together who they used to be with who they had became with who they were now and Peter doesn't understand how any of them can remember who they're supposed to be these days.

o.

The summer wanes and the evenings are cool. Peter sighs and pulls his thin jacket tighter around him.

When he goes to find where they had left their coats, he's surprised to see the door to the spare room open with Susan staring at the old wardrobe, the drop cloth pooling on the floor and her fingers light against the intricate carvings.

It had become dusty again since the last time he had seen it, the deep wood seeming dry and cracked in comparison to memory. Before he can stop himself, he's crossed the room, his hand resting on the wardrobe handle.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks of her.

She shrugs a bit, looking out a closed window.

Even the windows are dusty and cloudy. He likes to imagine that the last time anyone besides Lucy has even bothered with the room was when they had all spilled out from the wardrobe. Lucy hadn't been there in days.

Susan sighs and speaks lowly. "It just doesn't seem real anymore"

Peter doesn't know what to say, because it _always_ feels real to him. But equally, he knows that the others need to continue forgetting in order to continue growing. He knows he needs to forget as well, but he just can't bring himself to start. He bites his lip before speaking. "I suppose it will all fade with time." He feels it's a diplomatic answer. He's always been good with diplomatic answers.

She purses her lips and allows her hand to fall away from the wardrobe. "Part of me doesn't want it to"

"And the other part"

Her eyes look a bit misted over, but that can't be right… This is _Susan _after all. "Everything has to end sometime or another"

She's right, of course. She oftentimes is.

He nods, because he knows it's what she needs him to do.

o.

Lucy, Queen of Narnia, is excited.

Susan, Queen of the Horn, is indifferent.

Edmund, sometimes King in Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste and Count of the Western March, Knight of the Noble Order of the table, is afraid.

Well, afraid might be the wrong word. Nervous, more like.

And Peter… Well, he's glad to be going back to London, away from Professor Kirke's and away from the memories.

Back at home, there won't be those little reminders: a room with an old wardrobe, fur coats, fresh air. Maybe they'll all be able to forget.

And he thinks that it works. Or at least he does for a while.

It's just… they've all gotten so used to hiding their inadequacies that none of the others notice anymore.

Except for Peter. He sees it in the tired lines on their faces.

o.

Their mother just thinks they've naturally changed and none of them want to disillusion her view.

Lucy might have said something about Crowns and the Lone Islands and fawns, but Lucy is still just a child with a big imagination.

Peter bites his lip and pretends he hadn't heard.

o.

He watches himself carefully and remembers Susan's warning from months ago.

He doesn't let himself slip into court-speak. He doesn't let himself reach for his sword when he's startled. He keeps from whistling for Oerius to come heed whatever he's thinking.

He keeps his distance from _SusanEdmundLucy _and all his old friends.

It turns out he's always hated London.

o.

Edmund is moody. Well, Edmund is always moody, but moreso now. After all, he's finished his schooling before, and shouldn't be forced to go back.

Of course, they can't just tell their mother this, so Edmund sits glumly beside Peter on the train, picking at stray threads on his sweater. Lucy is rambling from the other side of the bench and Susan has her book open.

And Peter wishes that this felt normal. It has all the qualities of normal, but somehow it just isn't.

o.

He's better at pretending the second time.

After all, it isn't the same as before; he's handed the Crown off to someone else, placed it jauntily on someone else's head.

Everything is different the second time. Even the very air tastes different; still rich and everything he dreams of, but stale with age and overuse and misunderstanding.

He's still High King, but he isn't. He's just a silly little boy once more and not everything he had grown up to be. Of course, the land and creatures still follow his call, but he assumes it is because they have to. Not because they love him still.

He ignores the eyes Caspian makes at him, even though at one time he might have pounced on the opportunity. That's wrong in England, he reminds himself, and this time, he knows he has to go back. Nothing can keep him there, as much as he might want to stay, and he shouldn't tempt himself with people he can't have.

When Aslan tells him he's not to come back, he doesn't know whether he's relieved or heartbroken. He wants to come back, to stay possibly forever, but he isn't sure he can handle just little hints, a few days every few hundred years.

o.

Boarding school will be good, he thinks again, sitting at the train station, fresh memories still flashing in his brain. Better even than he believed London would be. It'll force him to think of something else, to live in the _here and now_ and not in his non-existent past. If his dorm mates hear his dreams, they just ignore him, and don't wake him to talk about the unicorns or marshwiggles.

o.

He doesn't dream about the second time. Well, not nearly as much as he still dreams about before.  
He stills sees Cair Paravel as it was, a thousand years before, tall and powerful and solid. He still sees Beruna Ford, shallow and cool. He still feels his crown on his head at times.

And most of the time, it's like the second time hadn't even happened.

And maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was just his bereaved mind, trying to help him find a little closure.

He feels more disconnected, after leaving the second time. But maybe that's because he knew he was leaving, and not just stumbling through Spare Oom and back into a life that was no longer his.

o.

The next time he sees her, his Queen Susan of the Horn, she's different. He can't place his finger on it, but he thinks it might be the gloss on her lips and the way her eyes are a trifle dull.

Edmund is still snarky, and always will be, but he seems to have forgotten, not allowed it to take over his mind. He doesn't pretend to swordfight in the summers anymore, and writes letters to his friends.

Lucy, Valiant Lucy, doesn't _care_ anymore. She's taken a path that pretends it was a game and doesn't understand any longer.

It hurts Peter, to think that finally, they all might really be moving on.

o.

He isn't His Majesty King Peter the Magnificent, High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion. Not anymore. Maybe he never had been.

And he'll just have to accept it. Deal with it. Learn to be something different once again. He's not sure if he can, but he thinks he's gotten better at pretending.

o.  
And sometimes still, late at night when he's staring up at the dark ceiling, he thinks he's still trying to piece himself back together. But really, he's just rearranging the fragments until there's nothing of Narnia left.


End file.
